


calling out your name

by iamnightbird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic!Stiles, Punk!Stiles, Singer!Stiles, pacing? what is pacing???, rune work, tattooed!stiles, temporary memory loss, time lapse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnightbird/pseuds/iamnightbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the way the world ends -- not with a bang, but with a bursting and blinding light. Devoid of sound. Devoid of heat, or lack thereof. There was no screaming, and no chaos. Not anymore. The moment that the light engulfed them, the moment that it swallowed them up like the ocean -- clinging to their skin and tingling down their nerves and their spines ; that was when the world ended.</p>
<p>At least, the world as Stiles Stilinski knew it. And with that, we start anew.</p>
<p>The last thing Scott remembered before the burst of light was a strangled, “SCOTT!” His head whipped to the side, and he still swore that he saw Stiles standing there. Amber eyes wide -- but, they weren’t fully the amber he knew so well. There was an almost ethereal glow behind them. And it looked like he could see the veins in his hands ; curling around his exposed arms in a golden hue. Cradling against them like a spiderweb; seeping into his blood and out from his flesh. Like there was a tiny flame that illuminated his systems. It almost looked … peaceful. Beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay -- first and foremost. Yes, I did have this already posted. And yes, I kinda just let it sit there for a while without posting on it. There is a reason for it; a lot of that reason is personal and some of the things I had written into it. So I just decided to completely rehash it. This is me rehashing it. And, now that I've started writing it, I have motivation out of the ass for it. So, expect updates as soon as my life allows them to be written.
> 
> Now, for those of you who are new to this (since it's still pretty new anyway) ;
> 
> This is a concept I've been really wanting to write for a while. A long while. It probably began developing a year or more ago.
> 
> And, have no fear, the rest of this is not going to be so time-jumpy. Chapter 2 and on will all be within the same time span.
> 
> "Or.  
> The one where Stiles is a witch and is purged of his memories. He's given a new life on the eastern side of the United States and is instead a singer in a cover punk/rock band and sometimes does magic things. And Scott never stops looking."

_Day 000_

 

This is the way the world ends -- not with a bang, but with a bursting and blinding light. Devoid of sound. Devoid of heat, or lack thereof. There was no screaming, and no chaos. Not anymore. The moment that the light engulfed them, the moment that it swallowed them up like the ocean -- clinging to their skin and tingling down their nerves and their spines ; that was when the world ended.

At least, the world as Stiles Stilinski knew it. And with that, we start anew.

_Day 001_

It all happened too fast for Scott to comprehend it. And, even now, a day later and laying in bed with nothing but his ceiling to keep him company, Scott couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He couldn’t begin to process it.

Everything had been shattering before him, crashing to the ground like broken pieces of porcelain. Impossible to gather back up in his already wounded and blood-caked hands to fix into a somewhat broken menagerie of what it used to be. His pack, and his town, was slipping through between his fingers like grains of sand. 

Graduation day had come and gone. And now, just like everything else in their life, it was another memory in their minds that didn’t live up to the luster that they thought it would have. Now they felt like they were _stuck._

Just stuck _waiting._ Waiting for acceptance letters. For scholarships. For an answer to where their lives were going next – where their path would take them. _Stuck._ And it was beginning to make Scott _restless._ And he wondered if the rest of the pack felt it, too. Now that their high school careers were over, life didn’t come flying down on a golden set of wings to hand them a map on a silver platter for the rest of their life.

Albeit, everything in the city was currently _calm._ It had Scott unnerved. Because, unfortunately, he had finally learned by this point that it was only this calm before the _storm._ And every time that the storm hit, it would always leave more damage in its wake than it had the last time.

The storm did come. It came and escalated faster than Scott could ever process it.

Deaton would say that it was a demon that came to town that day – they only had one run in with it, so Scott had to take his word for it. One time was all that it took. All it took to take Stiles away from them.

The vet never elaborated on what kind of demon it was – but, Scott didn’t ask. It wouldn’t bring Stiles back to them. Back to _him._

He didn’t want to remember the night. But, remembering was important. It had to be. It was the _last_ time he _saw_ Stiles. He had to hold onto it. Hold onto the memories of himself laying uselessly against the dirt and sharp-edged rocks of the forest floor – gasping and straining around a splintered root that was impaled against his abdomen. All the whole the demon rose Stiles up and off the ground by his throat – long and lanky legs dangling. _Fighting._ Kicking at the beast that held him in place as a choked, strangled noise gasped out of his chest. Anger rising in the alpha as he tried to pick himself off the ground. _Useless, Scott! Useless!_ Nimble fingers wrapped around the wrist to try and pry it away from his throat to open an airway.

It was speaking, and it took Scott actually focusing to listen past the static that was beginning to clog his hearing. “I’m going to burn your precious city to the ground. You’ll be the easy part – then I will tear your darling alpha apart piece by piece. And then … maybe … for the hell of it, I will go after your father and watch the town fall apart at the seams without it’s sheriff or superman to save it. How does that sound?” The demon took the form of a beautiful woman with long, dark hair. Although, strangely, it reminded him of Kali. Maybe it was the sneer against her lips as she bared blackened teeth to the human. There may have been more words after she spoke, but Scott’s consciousness was fleeting – and he was fading fast.

He did remember, though, a look of _rage_ overtaking the face of the human that was only matched by the memories of the nogistune that had **seared** themselves into Scott’s memory. He remembered a strange, dark glow in Stiles’ eyes – a vague thought of _that’s not right_ flitting through his consciousness. He remembered the scent of something … _new_ and strange catching the wind before there was a blinding flash of light with the soundtrack of Stiles’ _wail_ behind it. Scott felt like the earth was shaking and crumbling beneath him – like the earth was about to cave in and swallow him _whole._

And, before that light, the mixture of fear and **anger** on Stiles’ face was all that he had left to remember him by. Scott’s hand reaching out shakily for his human as he whimpered a plea for Stiles …

_Day 015_

 

The pack was gathered awkwardly and quietly in Deaton’s back office. Waiting. All uncharacteristically quiet. Because one of their own was _missing,_ and it left a gaping hole in the pack. Malia sat on top of one of the metal tables, eyes focused on the tile below them. Scott, producing the most noise, wouldn’t stop pacing. Liam was in the corner, leaning against where the two walls met one another, hands folded before him. Lydia watched from closest to the doorway, a thin frown against her lips - arms folded neatly across her chest. And all of their eyes were settled on the vet. _Waiting._  
  
Before him, on the table that he leaned on, was an old book. Ratted and torn at the edges. Some of the ink was running, and the smell of musty pages filtered through the small room. His dark eyes filtered over the pages quickly -- occasionally stopped to run his fingers over a line of words, or pausing and rereading a paragraph.

After what seemed like hours, Deaton’s voice in the quiet room made them jump, “Okay.” It was simple, but almost earth shattering at how he spoke without warning. The pack straightening themselves up in one way or another, as if they expected him to produce Stiles out of the thin air.

“We have a coven’s curse on our hands. And a strong one at that.”

It was Scott who spoke next, “A coven? Like, a _witch_ coven?”

Deaton confirmed his question with a simple nod, his eyes still on the yellow pages of the book before him, “A witch coven. Given the .. circumstances. The symptoms, and the registry of covens around the western United States; the curse is very telltale of a coven from a little further south.”

Covens may not realize it, but -- their spells, their curses, sometimes carry their signature. They tend to cling to the same rhymes to produce proven results. They leave what you could call _fingerprints_ behind when they produce such a powerful spell – a spell that requires all of them to pull off. But, it takes someone with talents such as my own to find said fingerprint -- ”

This one in particular comes from a coven from Arkansas. They’ve been around for many, many generations. And, after the first century of being a pure and well respected coven, they became corrupted. The practice of covens is to not only strength the individual practitioner, but to share one’s magic with the group. The Black Rock Coven, as they are called, do not do this. Their power all filtered to the High Priestess. Their leader.”

Their leader now, and for the past eighty four years, has been a Hazel ; that’s a surname, not a given name. If my math is correct, their High Priestess now should be Fox Hazel. Probably also not a given name, but instead a name assigned by the High Priestess before her.”

They consider themselves elitists of their craft. They think, because they have been around for so long, they they alone can dictate the rules of magic. When the earth, the universe, and the turn of karma, seems to have been managing just _fine_ without them.  


Scott shook his head harshly. Halfway through Deaton’s words, he had halted. He felt like he had paced enough to grind a trail into the cement floor of the office. And the vet’s words were doing nothing to soothe his concerns. To put together the broken puzzle pieces that had been pulled apart and thrown around carelessly. If anything, Deaton just released a _hurricane_ that whisked them all up and now Scott has to try and pluck each one from the air. His hands shaking, his body trembling. “That still doesn’t explain _anything._ What did _Stiles do?_ That … demon, or whatever it was – _I don’t care!_ – is gone. Just … gone when the light cleared. Just like _Stiles was._ What _happened?_ ” Scott was angry, he could feel it deep in his chest. Making his heart burn.

Deaton let out a deep breath, “Take a seat, Scott, I was getting there.” The druid waited for the alpha to sit before he continued, “I knew Stiles’ mother very well. She was very … _gifted._ And very good at what she did. When it comes to children of the gifted -- them showing whether or not the gifts were passed down can sometimes take time. It depends on the child. Some show signs at a very young age -- and some do not spark until well after puberty. Sometimes, they’re what one would call a concealed spark. Like a wet match. They’ll spark, it’ll just take much longer. And sometimes, the match has to be put under significant _pressure_ to spark.”

He paused before giving Scott a pointed look -- the same look that always made Scott so uncomfortable. That made him feel like Deaton was looking through to his _soul._ “A human can only take so much mental and emotional trauma until they break. A life like the one you all lead is a difficult one. Taking a life, especially from self defense, can put a toll on a boy. The guilt and the consequences it can hold. The feeling that everything that they had built as a strong hold was crumbling. After the Dread Doctors, after the Void, after … everything you all have been through. Stiles has almost lost so much so many times – he must have felt stretched too thin.  
  
That’s more than enough to push someone to their limits. More than enough pressure to cause a spark.”  
  
And, all the emotions -- it was very much like a rubber band pulled too tight. It snapped. He _sparked._ ”  
  
And, he sparked out of anger. I’m sure he felt so many things on top of that. Fear. Despair. All of these _negative_ emotions. And negative emotions -- especially anger and fear -- fuel the darker spectrum of magic.”  
  
I cannot pin down exactly what Stiles did -- but it was strong. Not something that he would be able to willingly reproduce. The spark of a gifted is typically the most powerful they’ll ever be.”

But, it was _dark magic._ And I’m sure the Black Rock Coven do not see Stiles as a boy who had no idea what he was doing. But they instead saw the dark blimp on their radar and acted.”

Malia scoffed slightly, “You’re still not making any sense,” she told him, using her hands to push herself off of the metal table. “What are you _saying?_ English, please.”  
  
It was instead Lydia who spoke. The banshee had plucked the book from Deaton’s desk, “Stiles’ mother was a witch. And Stiles inherited her gift. Stiles, somehow, managed to erase the demon. Either erase him, or banish him back where he came from – I don’t think that part matters. And, in doing so, pissed off a uppity witch coven. So they cursed him.”

Scott was shellshocked. His best friend. A witch. It didn’t even add up. Nothing did. Claudia, _magic?_ Claudia had been one of the most normal mothers he had ever been around, from what he remembered. She was a teacher at the high school; taught Chemistry. Until she got sick.

But, Scott didn’t have the time to sit here and debate the ends that didn’t add up. If this was the way it was, he could get lost in his confusion later. “So, now what? What is the curse, and how do we fix it?”

Deaton gave a smile. It was a smile that Scott did not like seeing on the vet. It was sad, like he wanted to frown, but he didn’t want to dishearten Scott.

“Now, this is where it gets complicated. And, I’m sorry, Scott. You may not see Stiles for a long time." 

“We need to go find him!” Scott snapped, standing so quickly to his feet that the entire world of the clinic swam and he had to fumble almost blindly for something to grasp onto.

“It’s not that easy – “ Deaton was saying, just as Lydia piped up with, “You can’t.”

Scott was, at first , at a loss for who to address first. _It’s not that easy._ Not easy? Nothing about his friendship with Stiles was ever easy, but it was always worth it. And now, guilt at out the bottom of his stomach like a disease. Swimming around in his veins and making him much less of a person.

 _You **can’t.**_ Can’t? How could Lydia say that to him?

“What do you mean _I can’t?_ ” he asked, chocolate hues turning on the banshee.

She shook her head – and, despite her stance of arms firmly folded over her chest in a _don’t argue with me_ manner, her eyes looked impossibly sad. “You don’t know where you’re going – you don’t know where to start. Stiles could be anywhere at this point – he could be in another country, for that matter. You need to stop and think about it. We all want to find Stiles just as much as you do – _trust me,_ Scott. But we can’t afford to just up and leave without as much as a plan to where we are going. And we need to make sure that this coven is not going to lash back out at Beacon Hills.”

Stiles gaped for a minute, shaking his head at her. He wanted to scream – he wanted to be childish, for once. He wanted this to _not be his problem._ But, he couldn’t. He couldn’t just swallow it down and chalk it up to nothing. It wasn’t in his nature. And it _burned_ him to the very core that he was stuck here. The alpha let out a long and shaky sigh, closing his eyes to embrace the darkness that was behind the lids there – they remained closed for a few beats before he opened them once again to look to Lydia. “Okay,” was his response, “We’ll figure it out. Let’s let Deaton finish.”

Lydia didn’t look satisfied with his noncommittal answer, and her lips pursed, but she didn’t speak and instead looked to Deaton expectantly.

Deaton was quiet for a long moment – as if waiting for tension in the room to rise – before he continued his incomplete thought of _this is where things get complicated._

“The coven placed a dual curse on him. Which, for a solo practitioner, would be quite the stretch. But with a coven of their size and their strength? Not too much. 

They’ve combined a _banishing_ curse with that of the power of a memory curse."

Scott furrowed his brow, his backside now leaned against a metal table. Tanned fingers curled over the edges as he waited for Deaton to elaborate. Of course, he didn’t. “English,” he requested with a pointed raise of his brows.

Deaton sighed, as if having to further simplify a simple lesson for a class of students. “A banishing charm is very similar to a binding spell – but turned inside out. It takes a soul, or a thing, and draws a barrier to keep them out. Much like the mountain ash would do to werewolves. I would wager that they drew a barrier all around the boundaries of Beacon Hills. To keep him away. Probably plucked him up and dropped him elsewhere.”

Scott’s head was already spinning – Stiles couldn’t come home? Of course, Stiles would contact them once he was able, right? He knew Scott’s number by heart, and could probably dial it in his _sleep._ And at any moment, Stiles would –

“The memory curse, however, takes everything to a new extreme.  It’s not a practice most witches entertain the use of – they’re very finicky. And not very reliable. But, also very chaotic. The monumental lengths that a memory curse employed by these witches  -- the damage it could cause. _Did cause._ Stiles’ memories would be completely rewritten. They would put him in a new life. Of course they would – he wouldn’t even try to return again. He wouldn’t know that he would have anything to return _to._ He wouldn’t remember…. “

 _Please stop talking. Please. Just stop. Talking._ Scott’s head felt like it was about to explode. It felt like kerosene was filling his soul to the brim and Deaton was holding a burning _flame_ over it – just waiting for the right time to drop it.

Because, no. Scott couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t accept that everything that was _ScottandStiles_ was gone from Stiles’ memory. That those bright amber eyes that, when the sun hit them just right, made him look like the beta that he would never be. An entrancing gold. Those eyes would never look at him with recognition in them. That everything they ever were, ever could _be,_ was suddenly nonexistent to him. It was much too much, and Scott suddenly almost felt like he couldn’t _breathe._ Like his asthma once again was sneaking up on him – wrapping it’s fingers around his throat in a vice grip and causing his breaths to come out as a small wheeze. His vision tunneling around the vet.

“ … anyone. “

“But, there is a catch.” _Catch?_ As if reading his mind, or allowing the pause to be his justified anticipation, “Like I said, memory charms are finicky. It is possible to be broken. A mere slip of the name of one of the people he knew before would be just enough to spark his memories.”

“That’s a stupid catch,” Malia suddenly said, Deaton’s eyes moving to her in vague annoyance. “Some of who he knows has, or had, common names. Scott. Derek. Erica. Melissa. Say his boss is named Melissa, is he suddenly going to have a memory epiphany the first time he actually uses her first name?”

She had a good point, but with the way that Deaton was already shaking his head, he obviously had a way to negate it. “Names, especially in magic, have power. Someone’s name creates a special place in someone’s memory just for them. Let me put it this way.”

In high school, I went to junior prom with a short, beautiful blonde girl named Lydia. If I were to speak to someone about my prom, and I were to – for example – tell the story of how Lydia accidently spilled her punch all over the head quarterback’s girlfriend, I would not picture – “ he gestured to Lydia, “—our Lydia, but I would instead picture the blonde Lydia I knew then. The name means what our brain _intends._ What we envision. If Stiles happens to have a boss named Melissa, his brain associates _that_ Melissa with her own name – and that is the intent put behind when he says it.”

However, if he were to run into one of you – or anyone else he knows here – and something, somehow, triggered just the name with the intent of addressing you. That would be just enough to light the flame. But _he_ has to say it – the name cannot be given to him. You just have to pry away the rust just long enough for something to click.”

Scott didn’t realize that he had been holding his breath during Deaton’s explanation and story until Malia was pinching his side and forcing him to give a strangled gasp.

“Then I’m going to find him, and break that curse.”

Deaton once more gave that sad smile that made Scott’s stomach twist. “I do not doubt you will, eventually. Who knows where they sent him. _But,_ I feel I must give a disclaimer. Because I do not want to see it blow up in your face. Keep in mind, that while Stiles may regain his memories, Stiles will never be the same boy he used to be. Once those memories return, they do not eclipse the new ones. Both fabricated, and the ones created from the moment his life was rewritten. You may not like the Stiles that you uproot. And he may not like you. He may not return.”

Scott was quiet for a long moment – how dare he? How dare he assume that, once Stiles realized who he actually was, that he would not want to come home?

“I’m going to find him,” Scott echoed, “ _I don’t care how long it takes.”_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Day 1100_

It had been over three years. Three years since Stiles vanished from the small town of Beacon Hills without a trace. Without even a scent left behind. By this point in time, years later, the scent in his room was beginning to go stale. That in itself made Scott’s heart crack down the center - made him almost feel like he was drowning without land to be seen. Made him crave for the teenager that he had lost to the wind ; like he had been grasping to single particles of sand before a gust picked them up and carried them away.

 _Years Later._ Scott, at the very beginning, had been hopeful that this would be a few week affair. Never did he ever dream, in his worst nightmares, that he would be years into it and still be without more than a clue. He was still lost, and the only thing he had to show for it was boxes of letters, maps, and crude leds that took him to dead ends.

Everything about Stiles, in one way or another, had been beautiful. But, isn’t that how you always remember someone _after_ they’re gone? You don’t think of any of the negative aspects, the parts that made them _incomplete_. Incomplete and human. Instead, you thought about all the good aspects of what made them _them._ And Stiles was beautiful. He was never black and white - never easy to understand. His soul laid somewhere in the spectrum of all of the colors; all erratically bouncing and cascading throughout the universe until it all finally resounded back to Stiles.

Amber eyes would haunt his nights once his own closed -- echoing into the darkness and making guilt eat him from the inside out; making him feel ill.

Of course, with his eyes shut, the darker ends of the spectrum could return as well. Rain pelting his skin almost painfully and lighting his nerves on fire, fire that burned in his soul with _betrayal_ and the words of Theo echoing in his ears whilst Stiles tried to defend himself with broken explanations. A bloodied wrench. A twisted katana that made him bend and break. The sharp and lip curling stench of gasoline and the crackling heat of flare. The other side of Stiles that made him complete. That made Scott realize that the light in Stiles may not have had a home in the boy’s body at all -- but maybe in someone else’s. In the body of someone so pure at will that their eyes changed to a deeper shade by the power of his soul.

But, sometimes Scott could not afford to feel so self centered.

He had been searching, just like he said he would. In and out of Beacon Hills. 

Initially, Scott had a map that he kept in his bags that he marked off where he had looked for him. Going state-by-state -- driving through and trying to catch a scent. But, the states were, obviously, too extensive for him to be able to check all of it. The more he tried to plan it out, the larger and more overwhelming it became. He just hoped, and prayed to whatever God that he didn’t believe in, that he would get lucky. That he would catch Stiles’ scent randomly on the wind.

Of course, life was never that kind.

The first place he looked outside of the immediate area of Beacon Hills was Arkansas. It was the only lead that he could come up with, seeing as the coven themselves were birthed there and called that their home.

He, unfortunately, came up empty. Always empty. It was frustrating to keep _losing._ The more and more that he came up blank, the more disheartened and hopeless he became. And the more extensive this seemed to become -- the horror-filled thought fleeted through his consciousness on occasion. What if he wasn’t in the states? Wasn’t even in this _country_ anymore? He, of course, did not know the lengths that the coven would go to when he didn’t even have proper fleshed out motivation aside from what Deaton had told him.

Stiles had been a teenager suddenly engulfed into something that he didn’t even understand -- how could a coven with such age not understand that? And, in fact, feel so _threatened_ by it?

Deaton’s warning, obviously, would linger in his ears. _What if Stiles was not the same? What if Stiles did not want him, the pack? What if Stiles did not want to come home?_ He knew that all of those _what if’s_ were very real possibilities that he might have to face, but he was willing to risk it all to at least find him. Even if, some days, the _what ifs_ would fly around so often that they seemed to form a powerful hand that would constrict itself around Scott’s throat until … he couldn’t … _breathe._ Until he was gasping and fumbling blindly for an inhaler he still tried to convince himself that he didn’t need while insecurities and darkness snaked around his vision.

So, Scott had to go to different extremes. He was _determined_ to get his best friend back - and, what use was a pack, **_was being a true alpha,_** if he did not utilize what was given to him? He had to sit aside the modesty, he had to be the leader he was supposed to be.

He made connections, made alliances. He gained favors, formed contacts. So that in the veins of the supernatural community, the McCall name was deeply woven into it. Swimming through it like an ocean and reaching the ears of others. Anchoring himself and his pack in so that he could expand his reach. Expand his search to pinpoint the missing extension of himself.

His first real lead in a _long_ time happened upon him one evening. It was late, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. He cracked open his computer in the room devoid of artificial light, squinting into the monitor until his eyes adjusted. Once his laptop connected to the internet, a notification pinged in the corner of his screen. An email. Simply titled; _You Should See This Band!_

His eyebrows furrowed. Their contacts, when they would email or text them (never a call), they would use intricate ways of titling so that - if the coven was tracing the lifelines of the internet - they would be none the wiser. He opened the email, leaning back against the pillows that rested on his headboard.

It held a simple message that almost seemed more akin to a facebook update.

_this band is awesome. you should check them out. go google ‘kill count”. trust me, you won’t be disappointed. trust me._

Maybe it was junk mail? Or randomly generated promotional material. Scott humored the faceless email, though, and pulled up a google search page before copying and pasting the band name into the search bar.

That thought of junk mail soon shattered and his heart jumped into his throat when google pulled up a new link that he had never seen before -- it was a url that lead to facebook. More specifically, a band’s page. The bolded, blue words of the link read _Kill Count! ; a 90s and 00s punk cover band._ The sub-title went on about the members of said band. Most of the names he didn’t recognize ; Dawn, Konstance, Jude, and Bently. But one, bolded in the sub-title from it being part of his search, it read just -- “With lead vocals from _Stiles._ ”

So, Scott clicked on it.

He grew more anxious the longer his page took to load - even if it was just a matter of seconds. To the alpha, it felt like so much longer. He wasn’t even aware at first that he was holding his breath until his lungs began to prod at him -- and he forced himself to suck in a breath so sharp that it burned his throat, like swallowing ashes.

Soon enough, the page loaded and Scott had to take a moment to comprehend what it was that he was seeing in front of him.

It _was_ Stiles, but not as he remembered him. It was his same lanky build, same shimmering whiskey eyes that looked like they very well could overflow. And he even held himself in the same way, but …

The banner picture of the band’s facebook had a total of five people on it, but Scott did not pay mind to any of the others. He only had tunnel vision for the teenager that he used to know. The three years of search had lead to this moment -- the moment he was looking at someone that was light years away from the boy that he used to know. It was … Stiles, never-the-less, but… -

it was nothing, _nothing,_ like he used to be.

 

Hoped that it was still the adolescent teenager with so much energy that it seemed to sprout down his limbs -- making them much too lanky for his body. All flailing appendages and malice words that were followed by a smirk and a quick dismissal of whatever he had said. All the things that made Stiles _Stiles …_ were not there in that picture. Not at all.

Despite Deaton’s warning, Scott had almost expected, had _hoped,_ to see him as he used to be - he didn’t think …

Hope was a fickle thing.

His hair was the same length as he remembered it, but gelled more so skywards. A tuft of it in the front dyed a bright red. From the picture, he could see colorful ink cradling the curves of Stiles’ skin (stark contrast from the boy who’d faint at the sight of a needle), and … _was that a nose piercing?_ It was then that Deaton’s voice resounded in his head like a broken record - almost _taunting_ him. That Stiles could very likely be a _very_ different person.

But, what gave Scott a glimmer of hope in his heart was one of the tattooed creations against his skin. On the opposite arm from Scott’s, wrapped gently around the bicep like comfort almost tangible, was his own identical banded tattoo.

Something inside of Stiles, even if it was subconscious, never _let go._

His heart stuttered in his chest before ticking up a few notices, his breathing growing a little more heavy and he began to explore the page. Looking -- hunting -- for something that would allow him to hunt down this band. To finally see _Stiles_ in person. A lost teenager that, along the lines in a new and fabricated life, grew into a man.

The second post from the top was an post announcing their next performance. In bright colors and bold font across the front of it ;

_Friday, November 13th, 2015. Welcome Kill Count! to the Revelry Room in the heart of the Chattanooga Choo Choo property!_

Without even thinking twice about it, Scott was opening the page to buy tickets to the show -- despite the fact that Chattanooga, after a quick google search revealed, was in Tennessee. Despite the fact that it was a week away in a city he knew nothing about. Scott was going to be there. And Scott was going to bring Stiles back home.

And possibly, for the first time in the entire affair that he had been involved with, with the sudden possibility of seeing Stiles face to face. With the way his heart hammered against his ribcage like a trapped bird. With the way that he suddenly wanted to lock himself away from the world and cry. He finally accepted a truth that should’ve been obvious from the start.

The real start. When _StilesandScott,_ one word and one breath, became a thing. When they stayed up late with hushed voices around a single flashlight -- straining their young eyes. When strained breaths and shaky hands huddled together while lightning danced across the sky. When a mother passed much too soon, and a father walked out of two lives. Before werewolves and full moons. Before things became more complicated than just prom night - failed tests and failed relationships. Before their reality became more vast and terrifying than their imagination could ever keep up with. Before they finally discovered that they all had a little fight in their blood when a flame was lit in their eyes. Before they were forced into soldiers of the nemeton.

Scott loved Stiles.

He loved him. In every way that someone could love someone. So impossibly unconditionally that it hurt. That it was like a sharp shard of glass woven into him that reopened a wound every time he sucked in a breath. That through Allison, and Kira - it was Stiles. Always there with him. 

_Scott loved Stiles._

And even if Stiles didn’t love him back, he was going to set things _right._ Set things right and bring him home.

* * *

 

The smell of fresh paint still lingered in the small venue room – meshing with the booze from the bar in the corner and the stink of band sweat from the bands that had performed before them on the stage. A lining of new plywood and fresh plush against the sound booth – a small smile had crept its way onto Stiles’ lips as his legs dangled from the edge of the stage and scraped against the floor.

Stiles enjoyed the high that he got just before a show – honeydew eyes skimming up the royal purple walls to the massive chandeliers that reached out to him from the ceiling. The elegant decorations were almost inviting to him, like he could reach out and grab at them.

Here was where the witch felt at home. He had always felt a hole in his life, like something was missing. He knew that any one person could feel that way; so he never felt it made him special. Never felt that maybe something really was missing. That it was the stereotypical way of life for a foster child.

His parents died when he was too young to remember. And because he was too young, he felt no grief for them. There was not even any pictures that he could cradle at night to feign mournful feelings for in the wee hours of the morning. No hospital records.

He didn’t bounce from foster home to foster home like some of the kids he knew – he had a handful of concrete … not quite concrete, more like insulation fluff … memories of his two foster homes. He could possibly consider himself lucky that he didn’t live a life out of half packed boxes and new school desks every other month.

But, even despite that, he never had a friend in high school that couldn’t fall under the definition of _flaky._ He never really had a group he could identify with … Even if one would count what looked outwardly like a rebellious teenager, he excelled in school. Even with his frequent trips to detention for dozing off during class, or not taking proper notes. He had the motivation of wanting to get into the right college, to get into the right career. He might _look_ like a wash out, but he didn’t want to live like one.

When he met his band mates – Dawn, Konstance, Jude, and Bently – he finally found friends that were worth something. He met them three years back on chance; and it just so happened that they were like him. Something set them apart from society. Their blood hid in the shadows of the supernatural.

The supernatural presence in Tennessee was not overwhelming. It could be found if one looked hard enough, but it wasn’t around every corner. It was a melting pot of different breeds, and they all tried their best to keep to themselves. Despite what every B rate supernatural TV show might broadcast. No one in this town was too keen on starting a fire fight; they just wanted to live their lives.

Their band wasn’t overly popular - cover bands never got too big. But, they were a name the city knew, at the least, and on the lips of a few youtube fans. So, that was enough for them. Albeit, they were elated when they were asked to play at the Revelry Room.

The Chattanooga Choo Choo was a historic hotel that sat in the Southside of the city, and once held the crowd of a train station when it was first erected. Once the train traffic began to die when technology began to turn, it was converted into a hotel and surrounded by an elegance. Becoming a central hub for tourists and locals alike. Creating new music venues and restaurants. In the back of it all was Track 29, that hosted more popular names. The newly opened Revelry Room was home to smaller names, as it only held a fraction of the standing room the mother venue could.

But, it was enough for Stiles.

Soon enough, he was standing and moving from the edge of the stage when the lights brightened and people began to enter. He liked to imagine that every performance was something special - he did not aim to become of those musicians would eventually evolve and grow into something nasty that hated taking the stage and performing. That wrapping his fingers around a microphone and feeling the spark of adrenaline - something not even his magic could compare to - would become a chore. He couldn’t stomach it.

So he stood. Going backstage to ready himself for performance of a lifetime.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow - so, I want to open with apologizing for the wait for this chapter. Life has been super busy. Between family drama, my best friend's family drama, and changing my shifts to third, I haven't had much time to sit down and write. However, I am much more settled in life now, so I think the chapters (should, fingers crossed!) will come faster. 
> 
> I tried to keep the actual typed lyrics in the chapters to a minimum so that it didn't completely consume the story. Enjoy!

Scott slept on the plane ride over – it was all he could do to keep his brain from running faster than the pilot. And, as he slept, he had the same dream that he had had more times than he could count on two hands since Stiles had been gone.

They were in the forest – just like the last time that Scott saw him. But, at the same time, everything was different. There was no monster, there was no fight. It was just him, and Stiles. Albeit, he felt like there was an unknown presence amongst the trees that sent chills into his very being.

The forest that night was misted over – and, even with his eyes, it was hard for him to see more than three feet in front of him. It was like the fog was a physical, tangible entity of its own. And Scott would’ve tried to reach out and touch it, if he could’ve. But in this subconscious creation, he was much more than impaled on a small root in the ground. He was bound to the dirt – roots wrapped thickly around his muscles; around his wrists and ankles and thighs. Keeping the werewolf down. And, in the dream, he would struggle – his howls of desperation echoing onto deaf ears in the night. Because maybe, maybe, if he could get free _this time_ – maybe Stiles would come back to him.

Despite how disillusioned that sounded.

It would be around this time that he would see a figure walking towards him – and he would crane his neck up to look to it; straining his eyes to try and decipher the form. Whatever it was, it looked dangerous – but it also looked like he could easily slip his hand through it. So he would try to convince himself that it wasn’t real; even if his heart was hammering in his chest to make his _fear_ very real. The beating organ jack hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

And, as it approached him – as it reached out a mangled, clawed hand for him – a soul shattering _cackle_ would echo on the wind and buzz in his ears until it rattled his brain.

The last thing Scott remembered before the burst of light was a strangled, “ _SCOTT_!” His head whipped to the side, and he still swore that he saw Stiles standing there. Amber eyes wide -- but, they weren’t fully the amber he knew so well. There was an almost ethereal glow behind them. And it looked like he could see the veins in his hands ; curling around his exposed arms in a golden hue. Cradling against them like a spiderweb; seeping into his blood and out from his flesh. Like there was a tiny flame that illuminated his systems. It almost looked … peaceful. Beautiful.

And it was there that Scott would always wake up – gasping as if he had been drowning and jerking violently. As he did so, he knocked his head against the window of the plane – looking around with widened hues to make sure that he didn’t draw attention to himself. But, it was late, and everyone on the plane was either concerned with sleeping, or whatever movie they had playing against the back of the seats.

Scott let out a breath and decided that he would remain awake for the rest of the flight – flagging down an attendant for a pair of headphones so he could watch the movie.

* * *

Once Scott had landed, he realized only then that he hadn’t really given what he was going to do _once_ his feet were on the ground. The concert was in about three hours, and he had no idea where he was. He had barely even been outside of California (except for the few handful of life or death fieldtrips otherwise), much less this far east. He knew nothing about Tennessee, much less Chattanooga. He had been antsy on the plane, ready to land and beeline to the venue. But, now, once he was here and wandering aimlessly around baggage claim and idly toying with the original email, he realized he needed to slow himself down just a little. Collect his himself and decide _how_ he was going to handle himself.

He obviously couldn’t just _jerk_ Stiles off of the stage and demand him to remember him – then shove him onto a plane and take him back to Beacon Hills. It didn’t work like that, as much as he wanted it to.

He sucked in a sharp breath – a breath so harsh that it stung the back of this throat like the first hit of a cigarette after months of quitting. He closed his eyes and collected each and every shattering barring off of the floor before he finally, calmly, decided on a plan of action.

* * *

Gravel spun under the tires of the unfamiliar rental car as Scott turned down 14th Street beside where his phone’s GPS told him the venue was located. All of this felt… out of his element. Fingers wrapped tightly around a steering wheel instead of handlebars … windows and an A/C as opposed to the fresh air of Beacon Hills, as rolling down the windows caused sharp scents of a town that made his skin crawl seep into his senses instead.

Once he stopped, throwing the car into park – the machine lunging just a little in protest, he hesitated for a breath. Chocolate hues fluttering shut, he tried to search out any scents, or sounds, that would help him believe that Stiles was nearby. Albeit, to his disappointment, there were too many people. Too much interference. It was a sea of chaos, to his scenes at the least. And finding something that was uniquely Stiles was too difficult. Too many hearts hammering, too much yelling and too many conversations, too much body heat and sweat. Too much alcohol – the sharp tinge of it making Scott’s nose curl. _Too much._ And, while it was expected, the disappointment that gripped his heart tightly made his chest wheeze as his eyes fluttered open and he hung his head – shaking it before eyes wandered over to the line of people still trickling into the venue. All of the senses he got in return from his searching was just giving him a premature headache, trying to _filter_ through all of it in hopes of plucking up any shimmer of **hope** within it. If he wanted to find Stiles, he _had_ to go inside. There was no way around it. Even if he wasn’t sure how he was going to keep his emotions in check trying to find the right way – the right time – to confront Stiles. Despite the fact that he would have to _wait,_ even after he saw him. He’d have to go against every pulling desire to grab him off of that stage. He would have to let it _eat at him._ And that concept in itself tore impossibly at Scott’s heart, and he was sure it would be almost harder than the five years he spent looking for Stiles combined. Staring up a man who he barely recognized, who wouldn’t even recognize him when their eyes would meet. He would have to wait for an opportunity to get him alone. And he _would_ find one, even if he’d have to make it himself. He wasn’t leaving here empty handed.

But the _waiting_ was going to kill him.

* * *

By the time that Scott finally got inside, tucking his ID back into his wallet, the concert was already in swing – maybe Scott got mixed up in the mess of time zone changes and the mess that was his own mind. But, it was no matter. It wasn’t like Scott actually came here for the entertainment of the show. Less time to wait, in his mind.

He could hear the guitar and bass rattling his bones, a voice spreading over the venue that made his chest _tighten._ Before, Stiles didn’t sing. Not really, but it wasn’t like Scott hadn’t heard him before. And the voice he was hearing now was so familiar – and Scott was caught so off guard that he felt the threat of an onslaught of an asthma attack; grasping at the closest, solid thing to him as his knuckles paled. He closed his eyes tightly, feeling his eyes flare bright red under his lashes. He had to lean on his unmovable wolf to get him through this or he might just fall apart.

He pulled himself out of his haze of fuzzy drowning to tune into whatever was being sung – turning his head to the sea to squint through the sea of people around him. With allowing his wolf to take the driver’s seat, he was now aware that it was more than Stiles singing – a female was singing with him. And with an almost amused start, Scott realized he knew the song. The female and him taking turns with the song.

_“ All alone he turns to stone, while holding his breath half to death. “_

_“ Terrified of what’s inside, to save his life he crawls like a worm .. –“_

The song itself, or at least the band it was from, brought back memories of when they were younger. He vaguely remember Stiles plucking through his albums – plastic worn and cracked – and pulling out a The Used CD to wave in his face.

To distract himself, and busy his hands, Scott wandered to the bar and ordered whatever domestic bottle was the cheapest. It wasn’t like it would affect him any, and the taste of it would be the proper distraction that he was searching for. Because Scott couldn’t do a lick of good while he was waiting for the band to finish their set list.

While they finished their song, Scott shouldered his way through the people so that he could get a better look at the stage – taking in the other members of the band; pointedly trying to avoid letting his gaze settle on Stiles. The female who had been singing, he assumed, was on lead guitar. She was slender, skin strikingly pale against the bright spotlights that brought the band to life underneath. She had long black hair with streaks of teal, and it looked like she had several facial piercings. Her shirt looked like it used to have sleeves, but they had been cut off. Black, with the band’s logo on it, and a simple pair of denim jeans. Letting his eyes skin across the stage, the bassist was next. He was of a larger build, his shirt reading “ _Take a step back and literally fuck your own face.”_ His hair was almost shoulder-length, black, and shaggy. The drummer behind him was thin, and almost reminded him of Isaac in a way. He wore a clean, up-kept band shirt, a black blazer over it with a few across the lapel, and darker denim jeans. Lastly was the keyboard player, and she looked almost identical to the drummer – with more feminine features, and her blonde hair in long dreads. Her eyes, however, looked hazy and a clouded blue.

Once he was done with the others, he finally let his gaze take in Stiles – and he looked just like he had seen in the picture. Just much more animated. And it was then his attention was called to the fact that the song had changed; it was Green Day. But Scott couldn’t lay his finger on which one it was.

Almost halfway through the song, during a guitar break, Stiles began to speak and introduce the members of the band. Scott leaned the guitar player was Dawn, the bassist Bentley, the drummer Jude, and the keyboardist Konstance. Bentley then proceeded to introduce Stiles before Stiles was starting in on singing again,

_“ Dearly Beloved, are you listening? I can’t remember a word that you were saying … Are we demented, or am I disturbed? The space’s that in between insane and insecure._

_… Oh therapy, can you please fill the void? Am I retarded, or am I just overjoyed? Nobody’s perfect, and I stand accused. For the lack of a better word, and that’s my best excuse. “_

All feelings aside, hearing Stiles sing did strange things to his chest. To his heart. And he didn’t want to think on it too much right now before he could find a way to _fix everything._

Scott leaned himself on a wall nearby, trying to not seem too out of place to all of the other patrons inside of venue. Closing his eyes – and if he could pretend the voice wasn’t Stiles’, he could find himself relaxing. _I don’t feel any shame, I won’t apologize, when there ain’t no where you can go…_ Scott lost himself to it, dropping his head back against the wall. And, despite the fact that he was still enough to almost look asleep – or passed out – no one bothered him. Either they didn’t care, or they were too wrapped up in the concert. The smell of drunken euphoria from most of the audience members around him began to steadily grow around him.

…

 

After what felt like forever – five songs later – Scott was perking himself off of wall once the band started dismissing themselves. Tossing his barely drank beer into the trash and fighting the crowd opposite of him to instead beeline towards the side stage entrance. He didn’t know what he’d say to security if there was any (thankfully, there wasn’t) – and he didn’t know what he’d say to the band to get Stiles alone.

But, Scott had come too far to only come _this far._ And his wolf, now, betrayed him. Leaving him all human emotions as he shouldered his way back stage to hone in on Stiles’ scent – hiding under layers of new paint and sweat – so that he could _finally_ begin the process of being able to take _Stiles home._

To get _his Stiles_ back.

Even as emotions began to hit him hard enough to crush his heart. Even if his throat began to constrict his breathing. Even as his legs began to tremble to a point that it was a wonder that he was still standing. He felt almost trance-like, stumbling like he was intoxicated as he held to a wall for support – fingers skidding across it. A few of the band members, smelling sharply of magic and something unknown, turned to him as he rounded a corner. His breathing was a harsh wheeze as their mouth’s moved and their words fell on deaf ears – his world tunneling in and _focusing_ on the only person in this entire city that mattered. Even as his voice sounded foreign from his lips, cracking around the center and one – Bentley – placed a hand on his shoulder. It felt concerned, not angry. Scott looked pale, sweaty, and uneasy. He could barely hear a “ _You okay, dude? You don’t look so hot.”_ coming from the burly bassist. Scott shook his head at him, not as a negative, but to try and mutely get him to _stop talking._ As Stiles – _StilesStilesStilesStiles_ – came into focus, bent over as he was putting away a microphone stand.

 

There was a sharp intake of breath that made his chest burn, swallowing around where his throat had gone dry,

“ _Stiles?_ “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a reassurance, I do have a lot of pieces of scenes handwritten that I accomplished during work -- so I have things written and worked on for you guys! 
> 
> Also, commentary always goes a long way!


End file.
